


The Inevitable Force of Conclusive Data

by stardust_made



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:17:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How long I stay like that I cannot say but the pain is just staking its claim as my master when my ears pick up the blissful sound of steps. Their cadence, the weight with which the left foot bears down, the well-practiced, habitual placement of left then right foot on this or that precise spot bringing about the familiar creaks and moans of the seventeen steps, the inevitable, the inevitable…</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Inevitable Force of Conclusive Data

  
The flames of the fire, dwindling though it is, dance with the mesmerising randomness that makes life worth living. I relish the sense of order brought by the trace between cause and effect. I am at peace when the clarity of logic shoots through my head in a similar way to which something else, also clear, shoots through my veins. Oh, I worship the inevitable force of conclusive data. But if the whole of Creation could be broken down to facts from which deductions could be made, conclusions could be drawn…If every single thing could be explained and thus every single thing predicted, then next time I would rather let my thumb dwell three, four times longer on the syringe's plunger, pushing one shot after another, until that utterly boring version of the world was obliterated for good.  
  
Yes, logic needs to be the background behind life’s little operas. It needs to be the middle ground between one agency and another, two humans or two countries, no matter. It needs to be the high ground for every human, intelligent and evolved. I believe in logic as others do in God. But at the very heart of existence there has to be mystery. The promise of the unsolvable. Like these flames, here, in the fireplace. They may be following the laws of science—listening to the command of the air passing, the movement on the floor below, the chemical structure changing in the blackened wood. And yet and yet…Fire is its own commander. There is an element of disobedience in that dance, something inexplicable and belonging to the flame alone.  
  
Or it may be that I need to believe that.  
  
I can feel my eyes flutter closed. I pull up my knees to my chest and bury half of my face into the cushion. The inevitable and the inexplicable. My head hurts.  
  
How long I stay like that I cannot say but the pain is just staking its claim as my master when my ears pick up the blissful sound of steps. Their cadence, the weight with which the left foot bears down, the well-practiced, habitual placement of left then right foot on this or that precise spot bringing about the familiar creaks and moans of the seventeen steps, the inevitable, the inevitable…  
  
“Kindly close the door behind you, Watson. The fire is almost out.”  
  
The words are still wet on my lips when I can hear the click of the closing door. Watson’s soft voice orders the pain to vacate my mental premises and it abates. Why should anything of mine obey his words is beyond me. They are sadly lacking in formidable power; my dear friend is once again demonstrating his penchant for voicing the obvious.  
  
“It’s cold in here, Holmes.”  
  
I say nothing. I am too busy melting into the comfort of being able to hear my own thoughts. The good doctor moves about the room; in my mind’s eye I follow him until he’s standing right in front of my closed eyes. The pain has lost a series of battles with every step of Watson’s advancement to his current position, but it is still there, throbbing wickedly, a dark promise in its lurking wait. So I keep my eyelids shut and just turn my face up in Watson’s direction.  
  
I hear him sigh.  
  
“And you haven’t even pulled a blanket around yourself. How long have you been lying here in the cold? You’re the worst patient, Holmes, I have said it a hundred times and I repeat it now.” Something light seems to land on my torso, carrying a memory of warmth. Watson continues as if he is the one suffering. “I can’t leave you alone for a day.”  
  
 _Don’t leave me, then,_ I think, for the solution of his complaint is starkly evident to me. _Don’t leave me alone,_ I correct myself in my head—a futile action to prove how weakened the wretched illness has made me. Who could hear my thoughts?  
  
If anyone could, my Watson is the man.  
  
My Watson. The pain lashes out unexpectedly and its stab reaches all the way to my heart. Somewhere above my head there seems to be some noise. I strain to hear it despite my brain’s howl and am rewarded: It's Watson, sighing again. The exhalation is nearer this time—I can almost feel his breath on my clammy neck. The scent of his cologne bravely fights through the stale air—tobacco smoke, old ashes, my body’s own odours—to raise the room to its old subtle state of propriety, because that is how Watson smells—of a gentleman. Watson smells gently, of a man.  
  
My nostrils widen and I am certain I can distinguish that scent; that scent I would distinguish amongst a million others. It manages to assuage the pain.  
  
Watson sighs for the third time, shifts, then stills. Behind my closed eyelids I could picture his furrowed brow, his eyes, unusually dark and fretting, as he debates with himself whether to put forward his suggestion. His offer? Do I know Watson as well as to read his mind, his most intimate mind with my eyes closed?  
  
“Holmes, I wonder,” he begins, then halts, takes a breath again. “My dear fellow, I can see—you are—I mean, look at you, you are in a pitiful state. I shall make arrangements with Mrs. Hudson for our supper, but I wonder—”  
  
The pause is longer this time. I want to tell him that I am content already to have him here, right where he is, crouching by the sofa; to listen to him charmingly stutter over his words, his face blooming in the most fetching colour. But I keep my lips sealed. To speak requires effort; besides, as inept as I am in these matters, I sense that in this instance my usual brusqueness of observation would bring emotional turmoil to my friend and seal _his_ lips. I want to hear him speak his…request. The wish is powerful, feverish like my forehead was a day or two ago. Speak, my dear Watson, speak.  
  
“Holmes,” he says, always obliging, even when he doesn’t know it. “I can see you are suffering with the most terrific headache.“ The resolve and firmness of his tone send a flush up my icy feet and hands. “I haven’t got anything strong enough at hand. I’ll go and fetch it in a moment, but for the time being I propose—that is to say, I believe a massage of the scalp should bring you some temporary relief.”  
  
Despite the character of his words—a statement if there ever was one—the final sentence is delivered with the hesitance of a question. Watson’s voice has almost turned to whisper or maybe the frenetic rush of blood to my ears has drowned its sound. My lips part as I inhale the air between us, loaded with his scent, heavy with the prospect his words have given me.  
  
“Holmes?” A real question this time, so quiet, it’s an echo in my head.  
  
I nod. Then I nod again, just in case he did not see me well in the dim light or in case he worried that he mistook the motion for consent while it was a mere sign of physical weakness—I know how inventive of excuses the mind can be when it is stretched taut between nerves and daring. I fancy that I can hear his heart beating, an accompanying series of discreet, virile knocks to my own organ’s discordant thuds.  
  
He must be shuffling nearer now. My eyelids burn, giddy with the hope that cool fingers might touch them. My temples hush, their anticipation part-despair, part-incredulity…part-ecstasy already. Here, Watson, here, touch, my dear, dear—  
  
A noise, then the soft crack of a burnt log that’s shifting down to its own burial ground. My eyes are startled open—  
  
I stare. I stare and stare, unblinking. Of course. The inevitable.  
  
The fire has died down.  
  
Mrs. Hudson pleads from the door in her most anxious voice. “Mr. Holmes, let me call Doctor Watson. I’m sure Mrs. Watson won’t object—she said she was prepared for the life of a doctor’s wife, and the doctor—”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Let me call him.” Relentless woman. “He will be upset with both of us if—”  
  
“Mrs. Hudson.” How I wish to shout.  
  
“Oh, Mr. Holmes…”  
  
How I wish to send Mrs. Hudson away or to at least repeat that one word over and over again. But my throat has fallen victim to an invisible strangler. My eyes blur as I gaze at the dark crate of the fireplace.  
  
My eyes blur. No. Not inexplicable.

**Author's Note:**

> My second attempt at writing in Conan Doyle verse. Many thanks to [](http://tweedisgood.livejournal.com/profile)[**tweedisgood**](http://tweedisgood.livejournal.com/) for her beta suggestions, and not just for them.


End file.
